Women in Bertie’s life had told her that men, after lying with a woman, started lying to a woman. Men also fell fast asleep right after, paying no more attention to the lady once his bodily needs were satisfied.
Sinclair showed no sign at all of falling asleep. He stretched out, facedown, next to Bertie, watching her with warm gray eyes as he lifted a lock of her hair and let it trickle through his fingers.
Bertie wanted to freeze this moment in time—lamplight touching Sinclair’s back and hips, brown against the tangle of sheets, his slow smile, his gray eyes holding sin.
“I couldn’t steal anything from you now,” Bertie said, her voice shaky. “Nothing on you to take.”
Sinclair’s smile deepened, crinkling the lines around his eyes, which the bruises in no way marred. “You’ve stolen something from me, don’t worry.”
Bertie gave him a mock skeptical look. “You don’t mean your watch, do you?”
He made a rumbling noise. “You’ve stolen all sense of my place in life. I thought I knew the road I was on, but now I have no idea.”
Bertie didn’t know what he was talking about, but she couldn’t help smiling back. “You ain’t making any sense.”
“I haven’t made sense, lass, since you tripped into me outside the Old Bailey.” He touched the tip of her nose. “My world turned upside down that evening.”
“Well, it hasn’t been all that right side up for me either.”
Sinclair stroked another lock of her hair. He had a scar on the inside of his wrist, a perfect circle, like the end of a cigar. Bertie touched it. “What happened here?”
Sinclair glanced at the scar, almost as though he’d forgotten about it. “Youthful larks.” He shrugged. “Nothing important.”
Bertie rubbed the puckered skin. “Must have hurt.”
“My language was unfortunate. But Steven was stricken—poor lad didn’t realize what would happen.” Sinclair was silent a moment, as though remembering that long-ago injury. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” Bertie should be thanking him, for this breathtaking feeling.
“For watching over Andrew. For helping me save his life.” Sinclair moved his hand to her shoulder, his touch warm. “You were certainly cool and steady while I sewed up his wound.”
Bertie had been anything but cool and steady, but she shrugged. “Many’s the time I’ve stitched up me dad when he got himself stuck with a knife. He’s prone to picking fights with men stronger than him. Never was very bright, my dad. And he yells a lot more than Andrew.”
Sinclair’s smile vanished. “I’m glad you’re away from him.”
“He won’t be very happy about Jeffrey. They were great pals, Jeff and my dad, even if Jeffrey was younger.” Bertie touched an angry cut on Sinclair’s face. “The idea was to have Jeffrey marry me and take over Dad’s business when he was gone. I mean the business of robbing and thieving.”
“Which you are out of,” Sinclair said sternly.
“’Course I am. I’m a governess now, ain’t . . . aren’t I?”
Sinclair laughed. He was beautiful when he did that, especially when it was a genuine laugh. “We’ll make you one yet, lass. How is the training going?”
“Coming along. We’ve got about a quarter of the books read. I like the history ones the best.”
He looked interested. “What do Cat and Andrew like to read?”
“Well, Andrew likes the astronomy ones, and so does your cook, by the way. Andrew says he wants to build a flying machine that will reach the stars.”
Sinclair’s laughter came back. “What about Cat?”
“Not sure. She reads everything, remembers everything, but she doesn’t care. That’s not right, is it?”
Sinclair let out a breath. “Poor Cat. I’ve not been the best father to her. To either of them.”
Now Bertie’s anger stirred. “Rubbish. You’ve been fine. Don’t they have a fancy house and fancy clothes and all they want to eat?”
Sinclair slanted her an ironic look. “There’s more to being a father than that.”
“All I can say is, I wish I’d had a dad more like you. Wouldn’t have been knocked about, then, or told I had to marry a bully.”
Sinclair rolled on top of her again, his weight and warmth a fine thing. “And you are wise beyond anyone I’ve ever known. I complain, and you slap me with perspective.”
Bertie touched his cheek. “Aw, I’d never slap you.”
His eyes heated, showing even more wickedness. “I know that, wretched woman. Come here.”
Bertie was already there with him, but he drew her up into his arms. Sinclair’s next kiss was hot, his body tight, as he parted her thighs and firmly slid into her, starting the loving again.
When Sinclair woke in the wee hours of the morning, Bertie was gone. He stretched his hand to the empty pillow, his blood growing cold when he didn’t find her there.
He rose and sought his dressing gown, which had been folded neatly over a chair. He couldn’t help a touch of amusement through this alarm. Bertie had tidied up after him.
It was four in the morning by the clock on the bedside table. Sinclair fastened his dressing gown and opened the door to his study to find a lamp burning and Bertie standing at his desk.
His heart beat faster, his breath starting its constriction. Bertie was looking at one of the blasted anonymous letters that must have slipped out from where he’d thrust it among his papers. She raised her head as Sinclair strode in, her eyes wide, shock and anger on her face.
Chapter 18
“Put that down,” Sinclair said, unable to stop the snarl. He dragged in a breath, forcing himself to exhale normally. “It’s nothing for you to see.”
Bertie didn’t obey—she never did. “That’s vile, that is.”
Sinclair came to her and pried the paper from her fingers, her hand warm even in this chill room. Bertie had dressed again, though she hadn’t laced and buttoned herself all the way. Her hair hung down her back, loose. Her dishevelment made his blood grow hot, Sinclair’s need for her in no way sated.
“Who sent it?” she asked, watching him. “Not your brother-in-law, I take it?”
“No, not Edward,” Sinclair said with a snarl. “If I knew who, I’d rid myself of him, wouldn’t I?”
Sinclair heard his angry tones but couldn’t stop them. He’d received this letter this morning—no, yesterday morning now. Henry had brought him his post from chambers, and this letter had been among it. In the stiffly printed capitals, it said:
That whore you’ve taken to your bosom will be the death of you and your children. I know who she is and what she is. The viper always stings, and its venom is deadly.
“The whore, I take it, is me,” Bertie said. “Likewise the viper.” She was angry, not distressed, her eyes sparkling with indignation.
Sinclair folded the paper and thrust it into a drawer. “I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in this. I never meant you to see the letters.”
Bertie’s brows rose. “You mean there’s been more? About me?
“About every aspect of my bloody life.”
“Oh.” Her anger wound down a little. “Are they all like that? What do they want, whoever they are? Money?”
“No.” Sinclair shook his head. “He’s asked for nothing.”
“Ah, you know it’s a he, then?”
“I don’t know,” Sinclair said impatiently. “I’m only guessing.”
“Hmm.” Bertie’s look turned speculating. “Are you thinking a woman would write a longer letter and use her own hand? Not sure she would. When you get a threat like that, though, it’s usually for money, or for you to keep out of the way of some villain making money. But they haven’t asked for nothing?”
“No.” Sinclair took the key from his desk, locked the drawer, and dropped the key into his pocket.
“We don’t know. I’ve given the letters to Fellows, and he’s trying to help me find out who’s writing them.”
“Bet he’s not getting anywhere. Scotland Yard blokes like murders and violent robberies, not taunting letters. But I could give it a go. What did the others say?”
Sinclair’s temper splintered at the thought of her tracking down whoever could think up such contemptible drivel. “You’ll not be giving anything a go. You’ll be taking my children to Scotland when Andrew is well enough to travel.”
Her look turned eager. “Andrew keeps telling me about your house there. It sounds ever so nice.”
“It is.” The loch and hills could soothe him, even if Sinclair had hated the place the first year or so without Daisy. Too much empty space. “Though we won’t have time to go there first. We’ll go straight to Kilmorgan for the Christmas gathering.”
“The kids too? The duke lets them come?”
“Oh, yes,” Sinclair said in dry tones. “Hart likes the house to be overflowing—McBrides, Mackenzies, Scrantons, Ramsays, Fellowses, and anyone Hart wants to sway to vote his way on whatever he’s got his party in a froth about. He crams them in.”
Bertie bit her lip, her frown charming. “Might be a bit difficult, that. I think the duchess likes me—at least, she’s kind to me. Lord Ian said he thought his wife would like me too. But you’re saying there’ll be English aristos there?”
Sinclair felt a modicum of relief at the change in topic. “Yes, and I don’t give a hang what they think of you. They should be grateful I’ve found someone who can keep Andrew away from the matches.”
“It’s not the aristos I’m worried about. I think I can learn enough to fool your brother-in-law, and maybe other gents and ladies who don’t know me, but if real governesses are there, I won’t be able to fool them. I’m just a girl from the backstreets, and they’ll know it.”
Sinclair smoothed back a lock of Bertie’s hair, mussed from his bed. “We all have to come from somewhere.”
“Not in England. You’re either born with a silver spoon in your mouth or in the gutter, and you don’t cross the line. A working-class man can learn how to make a lot of money, but everyone knows he’s still from the gutter. The sign of a true gentleman is that he don’t . . . doesn’t . . . do any work.”
“But I’m not English, am I?” Sinclair traced her cheek. “A fact too many people forget. The next head of clan McBride might be eking out a living in the gutters of some industrial city until enough heirs in his way pass on. Will he be any less able to lead the clan for all that? No—he’ll probably do better than someone born to do nothing all day. Do you know what we McBrides call a man who thinks he’s too much of a gentleman to work? Lazy.”
Her smile returned, lighting her eyes. “I like that.”
“They don’t call me the Scots Machine because I let others labor for me.”
Something sly entered her smile. “I could think of another reason for that name.”
Sinclair stared at her a moment, not understanding. Then he felt his cheeks burn. “Don’t embarrass me. I was . . . needy.”
“More like greedy.”
The burn worked its way down his body, making his arousal, which hadn’t much deflated, grow rigid again. “Greedy, was I?” Sinclair wrapped his fingers around her loose hair and gently tugged her closer. “I think I remember you wanting plenty.”
“Couldn’t help it.” Bertie slid her arms around him, her body under her loosened clothes warm and welcoming. “Could I?”
The desk was right there. It was covered with papers, but Sinclair shoved them to the floor and lifted Bertie onto it. Her unlaced and unbuttoned garments came away easily, baring her body to him. The lamplight touched her breasts, the nipples becoming a dark rose red as they tightened for him. The light brushed the hair between her legs, which he could see was already damp. Sinclair let his dressing gown drop to the floor, his hardness tight as he stepped naked between her thighs.
Bertie reached for him, her teasing smile becoming languid as he touched her. They fit together so well, Sinclair thought, as he eased her hips forward and himself into her again.
The soft sound Bertie made caused Sinclair’s need to flare white hot. Soon they were rocking together, hands grappling, bodies flushed and streaked with sweat. Sinclair gave himself up to the fire of the moment, as her heat, and the completeness of her, welcomed him back.
Bertie barely made it back to her room before the maids and Peter started their morning rounds to deliver coal and stir fires. Bertie was flushed with warmth as she peeled off her clothes, even though her room was cool, only embers in the grate.
She’d just pulled on her nightgown when she heard Charlotte coming up the stairs with her clanking coal bucket. Bertie hurriedly rumpled her bed and pretended to be just climbing out as Charlotte walked in.
Bertie asked Charlotte to draw her a bath, which the girl did. The hot water stung a bit on Bertie’s intimate parts as she lowered herself into it, making her flush more. The last go on the desk had been a bit turbulent, not that Bertie had minded. She’d gone a little wild with the amazing pleasure of it, and Sinclair had laughed. Then he’d stopped laughing as he’d lost himself in passion. Bertie liked how his eyes had gone dark, his touch firm, the strength of him holding her in place as he’d loved her.
If she’d been a genteel young lady, Bertie supposed she’d feel sorrow or shame at what they’d done, but she didn’t. Maybe that meant she was truly a tart, as the letter had said, but at the moment, she scarcely cared.
She floated on emotion, the joy of it sliding around her like the hot water of the bath. Yes, she could easily have gotten with child any of the three times they’d gone at it tonight, but the thought only made her excitement grow. Any child of Sinclair’s would be welcome, never mind the tiny voice deep inside that told her she was a fool.
Charlotte had left her to enjoy her bath in peace, and Bertie slowly drew the sponge over herself, picturing how it would be if Sinclair did it for her. His hair would be damp from the steam, droplets of water would bead on his skin, and he’d give her his slow, wicked smile that was absent of all sorrow.
Bertie hugged the sponge to her chest. Sinclair was part of her world now, and she wouldn’t easily let go of that.
She got out, dried off, and dressed. She’d discovered a few smears of blood on her drawers when she’d taken off her clothes, and had known it wasn’t from her menses. Bertie had thought she’d be too old to shed virgin’s blood, but apparently not. She wadded up the drawers and shoved them into her laundry bag before Aoife came in to help her lace up. Sinclair’s family’s laundry was all sent out, so with any luck, no one within the house would see it.
Bertie ate breakfast with the children, Andrew already better than yesterday, well enough to eat everything in sight.
Sinclair, Aoife told her, had decided to go back to his chambers today if only for a little while, now that Andrew was healing and the awful man who’d broken in had been arrested. Sinclair departed without coming upstairs, but he raised his hand to Bertie, Cat, and Andrew looking out of the window, smiling up at them. Then he stepped into his carriage and was gone.
In spite of Jeffrey stewing in jail awaiting his trial, Bertie worried about Sinclair out and about in town. The anonymous letter writer bothered her, and though Sinclair didn’t think his brother-in-law had sent the letters, Bertie wouldn’t put it past him, or his wife. They might want their mitts on Sinclair’s children by hook or by crook.
Bertie was no stranger to people leaving threatening notes—her dad had got them all the time. Mostly they were scrawled on a scrap of paper, short and to the point. Stay off my patch, or else. High-end villains liked to lord it over the rest of them, and Bertie’s father was often warned. Sometimes the villains didn’t bother with notes, just sent in a thug or two to do Bertie’s dad over. Jeffrey had urged Bertie’s father to give i
n and simply work for the big villains, but Gerry never would. He hated people telling him what to do.
Once Andrew and Cat were settled in, Bertie went back down the stairs to the next floor and made sure no one was in Sinclair’s study before she slipped inside and closed the door.
Sinclair had not only locked the drawer into which he’d dropped the letter, he’d locked all the other drawers too. Bertie pulled out a hairpin and unlocked them again. Why the rich bothered with fancy desks that could be picked with a piece of straw, she didn’t know.
Bertie didn’t find any more letters until she discovered a box pushed into the back of the bottom drawer, hidden behind other stacks of papers. Bertie set this box on the desk, put her hairpin to work, and opened it.
Inside, she found five folded papers in their envelopes. The envelopes were ordinary, sold by most stationers. Likewise the sheets of paper. Bertie unfolded each letter, finding the same kind of printing as in the one that called her a viper—the capitals were so precise the writer must have used a straight rule to draw them.
Not one of the missives was very long, and there were five in the box. Bertie made herself read them through, as distasteful as they were.
Every letter was about Sinclair’s wife, the late Margaret McBride. Sweet Daisy wasn’t what she pretended to be, was she? one said. What did she get up to before she squeezed out your children? Another, You know what she was, and how she tricked you into marrying her. Who else would you like me to tell about her past?
Mean things. And odd. From what everyone in the house had told her about Mrs. McBride, she’d been a fine lady—laughing, sweet, loving to her children. Were the letters lies then? The one about Bertie had implied that she’d do harm to Cat and Andrew. The viper always stings, and its venom is deadly.
She’d never hurt them at all, or Sinclair. Never . . .
Bertie swallowed, remembering that her presence had caused Andrew to be shot. Maybe the letter writer was more perceptive than she gave him credit for.